A Minute Will Reverse
by wincasters
Summary: Kurt was in love. Not the infatuation he'd suffered through with Finn, but love, real burning love that he though had only existed in movies and everyone's life but his own. Klaine AU, rating changed.
1. Slayer

**Title: for decisions and revisions (which a minute will reverse)  
>Author:<br>****Pairing: Kurt/Blaine (mentions later on of Finn/Quinn, Puck/Rachel, and Sam/Mercedes)  
>Rating: T (rating might go up in later chapters)<br>****Disclaimer: **Glee, Kurt, and Blaine all belong to FOX, and the idea behind Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon Glee, Kurt, and Blaine all belong to FOX, and the idea behind Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon** .  
>Summary: <strong>Five ways that Kurt and Blaine didn't meet, and the one way they did**.  
>Notes: This will be a six chapter story, but it's important to realize that, with the exception of the last chapter, <em>each chapter is an AU in its own right and completely unrelated to the chapters that come before and after<em>. It's a fanfic comprised of six one-shots. The title comes from the poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot .  
>Spoilers: <strong>Eventually through 2x16 "Original Song," but not until Ch. 6 .

* * *

><p><strong>One.<strong>

It was dark outside. The summer air wasn't too thick and weighed down with humidity, and every now and then a warm breeze would drift across the earth. The moon hung heavy and full in the midnight sky. It was the epitome of a beautiful evening.

And Kurt was being strangled.

He probably would have been more alarmed at his current predicament if it didn't happen at least once a week. Sometimes the hands bruised him more heavily than others, and sometimes he had fleeting moments when he genuinely feared for his life.

This was not either of those times.

Seriously, what had his life come to? He was being strangled and he was _bored._ He sighed and flicked his eyes down towards the bumpy visage of the creature in front of him. Dropping his hands from where they were loosely circling the vampire's wrists, he pulled a thin wooden stake from his back pocket and thrust it forward.

The grip around his neck disappeared in a plume of ash, and Kurt wrinkled his nose. "I really should know better than to wear designer vintage on patrol duty," he muttered to himself, running his hands over his leather jacket. "Damn vampires, getting dust everywhere." He sighed and glanced around the graveyard.

There was nothing but the sound of cars nearby and crickets chirping. Kurt pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and put the buds in his ears – it would probably he _safer_ not to be listening to music while he was acting as vampire bait, but he had learned to rely heavily on the heavy tingle that ran up his spine whenever something demonic was nearby.

"I do it every time," he sang to himself, dancing a little bit around the grave markers. A couple meters away, a heavily shadowed figure watched him, and stepped forward. "You're killing me now…."

"Pardon me?"

The interruption went unheard. Kurt continued his shimmying around the mausoleum, pressing himself against the hard, stone wall while he sang.

"And I won't be denied by you-"

"…Slayer?"

"The animal inside of y-OH, MY GOD." Kurt yanked his headphones out when he spun around, suddenly feeling a violent shiver up his spine. A man that appeared to be physically around his same age stood in front of Kurt, eyes wide and mouth pursed in an attempt not to laugh.

Kurt was not as amused. He pulled the stake back out of his pocket and held in underneath his armpit while he wound his headphones back around his phone. "You know," he said, heated. "It's common courtesy not to sneak up on people, especially when they're having a private moment."

The vampire grinned at him. "You were _dancing._"

_"Private. Moment."_ Kurt sniffed and pushed his hair back out of his eyes, giving the vamp a once over. "So. You want to do this?"

Confusion settled into hazel eyes, and black eyebrows twitched upwards. "Do…what?"

"You know. This. You fight me, I fight you, someone overpowers the other, and then somebody's either dust or dead." Kurt shoved his iPhone into his jacket pocket and let the stake fall into his hand. He gestured at the vampire with impatience. "So?"

"Whoa, hey, no," he said, holding up both hands and taking a step back. His eyes followed the pointy wood warily. "I don't want to kill you. I don't wanna kill anybody."

"I have a hard time believing that."

"I'm new in town," he continued. "My name's Blaine, by the way, nice to meet you, but I just moved here because of the Hellmouth. I heard the Slayer lived around the area, and just thought I would offer my services."

"Unless your services include leaving me alone or becoming dust-"

"They don't, actually," Blaine said, and dropped his hands with a sigh. "Listen, I'm not like your usual vampires. I don't like humans. Well," he amended quickly, shrugging his shoulders at Kurt. "I like humans fine, actually. I used to be one, centuries ago, and I've been around them long enough to remember why they're so fond of being alive. What I meant was, I don't like human blood. Too tangy. Sticks to the roof of your mouth. I hate that feeling, you know?"

Kurt stared at the short vampire, mouth gaping open slightly. In his four years as the Slayer, he hadn't ever encountered a vampire who just felt like _chatting._ He cleared his throat. "Like…peanut butter?"

Blaine grinned at him. "Exactly. Man, I wish I'd been human when peanut butter was invented. It tastes pretty good now, but I can't imagine…you know, before my taste buds decided blood was delicious, I'm sure peanut butter would have been my favorite."

Kurt was at a loss for words.. The only thing he managed to get out was, "I'm sure," before he turned on his heel and started walking away. "What in the world—" he whispered to himself, looking over back over his shoulder.

Blaine had disappeared. Something that felt vaguely like disappointment twinged in Kurt's chest, but quickly left when he turned around and heard himself shriek like a little girl. He threw his hands up and sent the stake flying through the air, pulling both of his palms hard against his mouth.

Blaine was standing very, _very_ close to him. Still grinning like a fool.

"Stop it," Kurt bit out. "sneaking up on me. Some of us still have beating hearts that can't handle it."

"Aren't you the Slayer?"

"Aren't you a vampire?" he countered. "Supposed to be a dark creature of the night, doomed to an unlife of soulless damnation until I come along and dust your sorry ass?"

Blaine shrugged leather-clad shoulders at him, and tucked his hands into his pockets. "That's the gist of it. Except for one part." He crooked a finger at Kurt and beckoned him closer. Kurt didn't budge an inch, and Blaine dropped his hand without looking too bothered about it. "You, my good sir," he said, and dipped into a low bow, "are looking at a souled vampire."

Kurt cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. "Vampire with a soul? And here I thought you were going to tell me something _exciting._ Have you seen my stake?" He cast his eyes around he ground, searching for his weapon. "I swear, I lose this thing every day…" Giving up his search for now, he turned around to face his unwanted companion. Blaine's eyebrows were furrowed together, and he had crossed his arms across his chest, and the expression on his face could only be described as 'downtrodden.' "Oh, my God. What is wrong with you? Are you _pouting?_"

"Souled vampires are rare, okay?" Blaine snapped, and leaned his shoulders against the mausoleum. "I'm the only one that's ever _retained_ their soul after being turned. There's no reason why. I just _am_, and the last time the Powers That Be got wind of more than one souled vamps existing, they set the First Evil on the world and tried to watch it burn!" He heaved an unnecessary sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Kurt wrapped his arms around his body and glanced down towards his feet, toeing the wooden stake that had apparently been right next to him the entire time. He felt like a chastised little child, and could feel the blush blooming high on his cheekbones.

Blaine swept his eyes over Kurt's figure, lingering on the lock of hair that had fallen over the Slayer's forehead. "I'm sorry for yelling at you," he said, voice significantly calmer. "It's just…hard. I've been alone for so long, and your reputation made it seem like you would understand. I'd heard through the demon grapevine that you were a little bit more understanding with my kind, until they tried to kill you." Blaine stood upright, and made his way back towards Kurt, and clapped one hand firmly on the tall Slayer's shoulder. "Maybe sneaking up on you was a bad idea. I see that now." His hand fell, grazing down the length of Kurt's upper arm as it went. "I'll go."

The vampire shoved his hands into his jeans, feeling his thighs flex beneath his palms as he began walking backwards and away from Kurt.

"Wait."

He stopped.

Kurt pulled at the sleeves of his jacket nervously, straightening out any creases before he crossed his arms back over his chest. He had an odd expression on his face, like the words that were about to come tripping out of his mouth tasted like acid. Blaine wondered briefly what he could possibly be about to say that would cause such a look.

"I'm…sorry."

Ah, so that was it.

Kurt had pulled his shoulders back and lifted his chin up a little bit in an attempt to seem nonchalant, but Blaine could still see the way his fingers were flexing nervously against his leather-clad bicep. His tone was hard and his words faltered when they fell off his tongue. "I've…never had a vampire try to…_talk_ to me before. Usually it's just the attempted murder crap. And you…caught me off guard. So I was jumpy. I normally sense that type of stuff but with you…I can't. Not until you're right here. In front of me, I mean. Or behind me." Kurt's eyes widened when he saw Blaine try to suppress a smirk. "Not in a sexual way. No. Absolutely not."

"Oh? And why not?"

Kurt's face flushed beautifully and he pivoted on his heel. "I'm not talking about this with you," he bit out, bending over to pick up his stake and Blaine took a brief moment to appreciate the view provided to him. Kurt straightened back up and began taking several long strides away from the vampire behind him. "I try to apologize and you're standing there making crude comments and it's _wholly_ unappreciated. I bid you farewell."

In a rush of unnatural movement that sent a slight wind past Kurt, Blaine was suddenly in front of him. Kurt's feet stopped in their tracks, and he looked behind himself quickly before redirecting his gaze towards the vampire. "How…" he began, but the words died in his throat. "I haven't ever seen a vamp move that fast before."

"That's what you get when you've been around as long as I have. Your senses and abilities just kind of…magnify." Blaine shrugged as if it weren't impressive.

"How old _are_ you?"

Blaine pursed his lips to the side in thought, tilting his eyes towards the night sky. "Well, if you're asking for specifics, I'd have to say maybe around…oh, gosh, I don't know. A thousand years old?" Kurt's mouth gaped out. "Give or take a few centuries."

"A few centuries, he says. _Centuries_, like they grow on trees."

"In my defense, they don't seem too long after a millennia."

Kurt's brain began to hurt. He pushed two fingers on each hand against his temples and shook his head, trying to clear his muddle mind. "And…you've been totally off human blood that whole time?"

"You mean other than when I first clawed my way out of the ground? Pretty much. That first night you're a vamp…it's a doozy. Most of the time, makers just leave their childe to find their own way. I wasn't so lucky. As soon as I had finished fighting my way out of hundreds of pounds of dirt and other dead bodies, my sire was forcing the blood of…" His eyes cast down in shame, and his voice lowered "She…she was younger than my sister, I think. I threw up the blood as soon as it reached my stomach." He let out a humorless laugh. "Haven't had a taste for the platelets of homo sapiens since the day I rose." Kurt took a step closer when Blaine looked off into the woods to their left, the pain in his face evident even in profile. "My maker…he…wasn't pleased. I was punished—beaten brutally, and left for the sun. I managed to crawl to safety, and I've been living off of animals for as long as I can remember."

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Kurt asked, softly.

Blaine shrugged, and knew that if he still had blood pumping through his veins he'd be blushing in embarrassment. "I don't know," he admitted, shrugging. "You're the Slayer. I trust you."

"Yeah, as a vampire? I'm pretty sure that's the _last_ thing you're supposed to do," Kurt pointed out, and gave a small, toothless smile to let on that he was joking.

Blaine's shoulders relaxed, and he gave a short laugh. "You're probably right about that." He looked over towards the sky, taking note of the ever-lightening sky. "Sunrise, soon," he pointed out, voice soft. "I should probably go. When you're as old as I am, it doesn't take much time to burn."

"Wait," Kurt said, for what felt like the millionth time that night. "Where are you staying?"

Blaine looked at him, with those damn expressive eyes and stupid triangular eyebrows, and smiled with those perfect lips and oh, God, Kurt was _attracted_ to him. "Why? Planning on making a…" he ran his eyes up and down the Slayer's slender form. "…personal call?"

Kurt blushed furiously and looked away. "Why," he breathed, and cleared his throat to strengthen his voice. "Why would you say that? Why do you _keep saying_ things like that?"

"Well, you're gay, aren't you?" Blaine asked, bluntly. "Unless my gaydar's become rusty in the past couple of decades. I just assumed…"

Kurt had a brief moment where he wanted to lie and say that he was straighter than…than a ruler (his metaphors weren't in their prime at four in the morning), just to mess with Blaine's head, but there was just something about the way he was looking at Kurt that required total honesty.

"Yes. I am."

Blaine _grinned_ at him, exposing canines that were naturally a little bit pointier than most. "Good. I'm staying at the old Anderson manor, ten minutes outside of Lima." He fished around in the pocket of his jacket for something and grabbed Kurt's wrist, pressing something cool and metal into his palm. Kurt uncurled his fingers and stared at the key, glinting silver and blue in the light of the steadily climbing sun. Blaine pulled on his wrist until his mouth was level with Kurt's ear. "Don't be a stranger," he whispered, then released Kurt and backed away. He threw him a wink, before speeding away in a blur of movement.

The trees rustled in his wake.

Kurt stood in the graveyard for a few moments longer, examining the key with utter confusion, before sighing in resignation. He slipped the key into his pocket and took out his iPhone, unwinding the earphones. He pressed the pieces into his ears and took one last cursory glance at the world around him, before he began the long walk home.

Blaine, hidden deep in the shadows of the trees, smiled when he heard the gentle murmur of Kurt's singing.

_Take a bite of my heart tonight..._


	2. Exchange

**Media: **fanfiction  
><strong>Title:<strong> for decisions and revisions (which a minute will reverse)  
><strong>Author:<strong> geordie_lover  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Kurt/Blaine  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T (rating might go up in a later chapter)  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Glee, Kurt, and Blaine all belong to FOX.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Five ways that Kurt and Blaine didn't meet, and the one way they did.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>This will be a six chapter story, but it's important to realize that each chapter is an AU in its own right and completely unrelated to the chapters that come before and after. It's a fanfic comprised of six one-shots. The title comes from the poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot.  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Eventually through 2x16 "Original Song," but not until Ch. 6

* * *

><p>Blaine sighed as he stared out of the window, watching the Ohio scenery blur into blues and greens all around him. His mother glanced over at him from her spot in the driver's seat, and reached over with a perfectly manicured hand to pat his leg. "Everything all right, dear?" she asked him gently. Hazel eyes they shared roved over his profile, lingering on his uncharacteristically un-shaven jaw.<p>

"Hmm? Oh, yeah." He straightened his back and sat upright in his seat, trying to improve his demeanor with a forced grin. "Just…you know. Excited."

She shot him a brief look through darkly colored side-swept bangs, telling him without words that she well and truly didn't believe him. Blaine wilted in his seat, rubbing at his scruffy chin with two fingers.

"I'm…I dunno. Nervous? Yeah. Nervous. Do you think I made the wrong choice? I haven't ever met the kid, and we've only ever emailed each other, and in this day and age all kinds of creeps are on the Internet, and what if he's some French serial killer?"

"Blaine Matthew Anderson," his mother said, firmly. "I highly doubt that a prestigious school such as Dalton would invest in a foreign exchange program with a school that produces serial killers. Have a little faith, darling. Didn't you say that he seemed like a nice boy a few weeks ago? What happened between now and then?"

"We're going to have a total stranger living in our house for a year, is what happened."

Marianne pursed her lips in irritation and flicked on her turn signal. She pulled their Audi over to the side of the road, threw the car into park and turned on the hazards, and rotated her upper body until she could face her son completely. "Listen to me, young man. This was _your_ idea. You are the one that pleaded and persuaded me to convince your father to let you do this, and you _know_ how much pressure he's been under with his firm's merger-"

"And since I came out," Blaine interjected coolly, cocking an expressive eyebrow. His mother's face flushed a little in irritation. His father's reaction had been about as bad as Blaine had been expecting when he had admitted he was gay, but he hadn't anticipated the minor fallout his parents had experienced afterwards. His father had spent days pressuring Blaine to "reconsider his options," practically begging him to go back into the closet just for the sake of having a son whose sexuality he knew how to deal with.

His mother had been infuriated with the lack of support his dad had provided and had forced him to stay in the east wing of their sprawling manor until suitable apologies had been made.

"And that," she admitted, and her voice was soft with regret. Marianne reached out and pushed her fingers through Blaine's hair, brushing the wild and rarely un-gelled curls out of his eyes. The dark red of his sweater cast ruby shadows into his eyes as they gazed at her, unwavering in their earnest. "But he's trying, Blaine. He is. And even though he's under all that stress at work, he agreed to this program. He loves you, even if he doesn't understand you. He isn't happy about you going to Paris for twelve months next year, sweetheart. He isn't pleased about having a stranger from a foreign country living in our home, but he just wants you to be happy."

She cupped his face, running her thumb gently over the apple of his cheek. Blaine leaned into his mother's touch. "We both just want the best for you." She withdrew her hand and put the car back into drive. "So suck it up, because we've already driven this far. And the poor boy needs a place to live for the next year."

The teenager didn't say anything and cast his eyes down towards his lap. A few moments passed by with only the sound of cars rushing by, the occasional rocking of their Audi as the wind pushed against it, and the ghost of his mother's gentle fingers pressing on his scalp.

"Okay," he said quietly, and gave his mother a small smile. "Let's go to the airport."

Marianne pulled back onto the highway with ease and finished the drive to the airport, turning the radio on and setting the volume to a level where Blaine was comfortable with singing to himself. It was odd, how he was always so ready to get up onstage and sing to hundreds of people, but barely opened up his mouth for a melody when he was alone with his parents.

She had always done her best when it came to her youngest son. His brothers, Brendan and Patrick, had forever given him grief, as older brothers were known to do. But once Blaine had come out to the entire family on an ill-timed and tearful Christmas morning, her boys had become even closer. When the twins had ventured off to college two weeks prior, Marianne had worried about Blaine. It had been one of the reasons back in April that she had fought with David so much to let Blaine participate in this exchange program.

Their house, though never quite empty because of their various maids and gardeners and the butler, was oddly quiet without her rambunctious twins to cause trouble every ten minutes. Blaine had friends in his singing group and at Dalton, but she knew that with Patrick and Brendan gone, he was lonely. She had her own apprehensions about the unknown boy coming to live with them, and she only hoped that he and Blaine could be friends.

Parking took only a few minutes, and by the time that they were walking through the automatic doors for the 'Arrivals' lounge, Blaine began to feel his hands tremble and his heart begin to stutter. He rarely experienced nerves anymore, given his years spent in theater and with the Warblers, so these sensations were unnerving. He gripped the small poster in his hands, denting the thick paper with his grip.

They managed to navigate themselves towards the area where the boy was meant to come out, and Blaine began bouncing on the balls of his feet when people began filing out of customs.

"Blaine," his mother said, glancing up at him. "You might want to lift up the sign so the poor dear knows who to look for."

He nodded, curls springing against his forehead with the movement. Taking a deep breath he raised the sign up to his chest, and waited with bated breath.

Dozens of people made their way past the two Andersons, a few of them sparing a cursory glance to the white board that Blaine held. Black letters, written wide and tall and slanting down a little bit spelled out two words: _**Kurt Hummel.**_

All Blaine really knew about the boy from their emails to one another was that his father had originally been from Lima, a town two hours away from Westerville, but had moved to Paris with his parents when he was 15 when his father had relocated. Kurt had been born and raised in Paris after his father and mother and met and fallen in love, and Kurt's dad had taken over his father's Auto Shop franchise (which, according to Google, was a 'Jiffy Lube' type of business for luxury cars).

Kurt had divulged to him that his father had decided that he needed a year away from home after his mother's death, and (this part Blaine had read over and over until the words had been burned into his brain) an ex-boyfriend whose reaction to being dumped had not been entirely…sane. Blaine, who had an amazing tendency to put his foot in his mouth more often than not, had immediately responded with, "Hey, I'm gay, too!"

That had been the death of the e-mail correspondence.

He considered himself lucky that he had even been paired up with someone that had been fluent in French and English from the time he was an infant – Blaine wasn't exactly acing his course, and he was hoping that Kurt would be able to help him in that aspect. That, and the house was kind of boring without his brothers there anymore. Even though he was pretty sure he'd frightened the guy away, he hoped that he could gain a friend from this whole experience.

A strange quiet settled over the airport and the heavy gray doors opened. A single figure walked out, trailing a designer bag behind him.

Blaine's fingers slackened a little on the sign. His heart paused for a beat, his breath hitched, and his eyes flickered up and down the boy's form.

Tall and slender, he held himself with a quiet sort of confidence as his eyes flickered around the room. Blaine wondered what color the irises were. He had on ash gray skinny jeans, a pair of black Converses, and a long sleeved shirt that fit him like a second skin. Around his neck was a light gray scarf, looped casually around strong looking shoulders and a slender neck. A white jacket was folded over his forearm, and he was dragging a Louis Vuitton luggage set behind him.

Those alert eyes finally settled on Blaine and his sign, and the American teen watched as the young man's shoulders relaxed in relief and his stylish legs began moving towards him.

The Converse-clad feet stopped a foot away from Blaine. "Bonjour," the boy murmured, giving them each a cautious smile. "I am Kurt."

"Oh, _bonjour,_ dear!" Marianne beamed at him, oblivious to Blaine's dumbstruck expression, and moved forward to wrap her arms around Kurt. If Kurt was offended by her awful rendition of a French accent, he didn't show it. "Welcome to Ohio!" she told him, voice warm, and gave him a matronly kiss on the cheek.

Kurt ducked his eyes down, and flickered the blue-green irises in Blaine's direction. Marianne nudged her son, none too subtly, and he started and reached a hand forward. "Blaine," he managed, and flushed at how rough his voice sounded in his throat.

"It is nice to meet you," Kurt murmured, pulling his messenger bag up his arm a little further. "I have been looking forward to it for some time. I have never been to America before." His voice was lilting, the accent noticeable but not overwhelming in his words, and Blaine felt the muscles across his shoulders tighten. Kurt politely extended his hand in greeting

Their hands met in the middle, and warmth spread throughout Blaine's palm and shot up his arm. He'd always been the type to fall hard and fast, and the heat between their palms wasn't helping matters any.

A sudden impulse planted itself into his mind, and he pulled on Kurt's arm and wrapped him in a tight hug. "It's nice to meet you, too," he said, tilting his face up until his lips brushed against Kurt's ear. He felt the blush travel up the taller boy's neck.

They withdrew with an awkward glance at one another, and when Kurt looked backwards towards his luggage, Marianne looked at her son with expressive eyes and a cocked brow. Blaine scowled at her quickly before Kurt turned back around to face them. "Shall we?" Marianne gestured towards the door.

Kurt nodded and walked alongside her as they left the airport, Blaine trailing along behind them. Wide hazel eyes followed the curve of Kurt's spine as he walked. This was the boy who would be living with them for twelve months? A slow smile pulled its way across his mouth when Kurt glanced back over his shoulder at Blaine and gave him a tentatively flirty look.

Blaine's feet picked up their pace, and he caught up to Kurt's stride, grinning to himself. All of the anxieties and fears he'd expressed to his mother earlier vanished from his body, dissipating into thin air. His hand brushed against Kurt's and he flexed his fingers happily.

Suppressing his grin as much as possible, he slung an arm around Kurt's shoulders. The height difference made it a little awkward, and Kurt's bewildered expression nearly made Blaine laugh at how adorable he was. "So I was thinking," he said as they walked out into the August heat. "Your room should totally be next to mine. We thought about putting you east wing, but I think if you and I had access to one another, we could get to know each other faster, you know?" He withdrew his arm and gave Kurt's shoulder a firm squeeze before dropping his arm.

Kurt raised an eyebrow and pulled his lips back into a small smile. His cheeks were still flushed high with a touch of discomfort, but his eyes told Blaine a different story. God, his eyes…they were a beautiful blue-green and they were looking at him and Blaine was just losing his train of thought and…and…

"I would like that," Kurt said airily, turning his face away towards the setting sun.

Blaine's eyes memorized the shape of the other boy's profile and an easy smile dragged across his face. He suddenly had a _very_ good feeling about this.

Kurt's pinky caught his, and pulled.


	3. Hogwarts

**Title:** for decisions and revisions (which a minute will reverse)  
><strong>Author:<strong> geordie_lover  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Kurt/Blaine  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T (rating might go up in a later chapter)  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Glee, Kurt, and Blaine all belong to FOX.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Five ways that Kurt and Blaine didn't meet, and the one way they did.  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Eventually through 2x16, "Original Song," but not until Ch. 6  
><strong>Notes: <strong>This will be a six chapter story, but it's important to realize that each chapter is an AU in its own right and completely unrelated to the chapters that come before and after. It's a fanfic comprised of six one-shots. The title comes from the poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot.

CONFESSION TIME: I haven't read the seventh Harry Potter book. I barely read the sixth, so I have only a vague idea of who died and who didn't. There are a few references to not-so-major characters in the HP verse. Also, I'm American. My obsession with all things British is laughable, at best, and I apologize in advance if the British-ness seems totally unbelievable. I was originally going to make Blaine from Scotland, and then I was like WHOA, LADY, YOU'VE BEEN THERE LIKE THREE TIMES YOU DON'T KNOW THE FIRST DAMN THING ABOUT HOW SCOTTISH PEOPLE TALK. But, I _do_ know how Geordies talk, considering I lived in Newcastle for over three months last year, so I decided to work with what I knew. If you don't know what a Geordie accent really sounds like, I tried to describe it, but you're better off with YouTube, haha.

* * *

><p>"Sorry to interrupt, mate, but mind if I sit here with you?"<p>

Kurt looked up at the door to his compartment, raising his eyebrows over the rims of his reading glasses. He gestured with an open hand towards the empty bench seat across from himself. "Go ahead," he murmured before turning his attention back to his book.

"Cheers!" the other boy said, grinning. He slide the door open fully and tossed a bag onto the leather seat, then shut the door behind him. He stuck a hand out, bringing his palm into Kurt's peripheral vision. "Name's Blaine Anderson. Gryffindor."

Kurt pursed his lips in irritation and shut his book. He reached a hand out to clasp the one in front of him and allowed himself to really _look_ at his intruder. His eyes lit upon a head of unruly curls and a slightly lopsided – but friendly – smile, and felt his demeanor improve. He removed his reading glasses with one hand as he shook Blaine's with the other. "Kurt Hummel. Ravenclaw."

"Ah," Blaine said as he settled into his seat. "That explains it."

Kurt's shoulders tensed. Bloody house wars. "Explains what?" he bit out.

The Gryffindor was undeterred. "Why I've never seen you around before. What's your year?"

"Seventh."

Blaine's grin stretched out even further. "Aye? Me, too. How've we never met then?"

Kurt shrugged and cast his gaze out the window. He clutched his book tighter to his chest. "I keep to myself, mostly," he said, voice quiet and lilting. Blaine had to lean forward a little to hear him. "Though you probably know my brother." Dark eyebrows rose, and Blaine leaned forward even further his elbows on his knees, encouraging Kurt to continue. "Finnegan Hudson. Or just 'Finn,' I suppose. He's in your house."

The look on Blaine's face was worth every Galleon in Kurt's pocket, almost comical in its disbelief. "You're brothers with Finn?" His hazel eyes roved over the form of Kurt's body, stretched out into a half lying-down position. "You don't seem…"

"Step-brothers," Kurt amended quickly. "His mum, my dad. My mum was a muggle, but she…" he cast his eyes down. "She died."

Blaine let out a low breath, one that expelled its way into existence in the form of a small, "Oh."

Tears bit at Kurt's eyes and he blinked them hastily away. No need getting emotional in front of a total stranger. He cleared his throat. "Finn's dad was an Irish wizard who disappeared one day. Occupational hazard, I suppose. Auror." Blaine made a small noise of agreement, and Kurt felt his face flush at the little grunt.

"Explains the accent difference, then," was all Blaine could say in response. "Finn's from Killarney, I know. You're from…" he tilted his head and examined Kurt's profile. "London. Yeah?"

Kurt nodded and played with the pages of his book, fingertips brushing against worn paper. "And you? Newcastle, from the sound of it."

Blaine gave him a wink. "Wae'aye man! Spent a few years, here and there. Most recently in Edinburgh, but me, I'm a Geordie through and through."

"Edinburgh?" Kurt said, sitting up a little straighter. "Have you ever been to the zoo there?" He let his feet fall from their perch on the seat and pushed himself into a full sitting position. "I know it's a muggle zoo, and all, but my mum took me once when I was in primary school and all I can remember is monkeys. _Loads_ of monkeys."

"Yer, I've been," Blaine affirmed, leaning back in his seat as Kurt leaned forward. He folded his arms across his chest. "My mam's a witch and my dad's a wizard, but they made me go to a muggle primary school. Went on a class trip there once." He shook his head and looked out the window, watching as the British scenery rushed all around him. "The things muggles are fascinated by. If they only knew, eh?"

Kurt said nothing in response, choosing instead to turn his own gaze towards the world outside. He was a little embarrassed by how uninteresting he seemed, blathering on about monkeys and his family, but there was something about the Gryffindor that made him want to talk. It was odd, since he'd known Finn since his first year and still had trouble communicating with someone who had been a part of his family for the past three years.

His owl gave a low, whirring hoot from the storage compartment above his head. Kurt could feel Blaine's eyes follow his figure as he rose and pulled the caged bird off of the shelf. "Hush, Pavarotti," he murmured and pushed two fingers through the thing metal bars. Pav nipped at the fleshy pads of his fingertips with affection. The owl hooted again, softly, and his large golden eyes gaze up at Kurt, imploringly. Kurt rummaged around in a small container on the shelf above, picking out a few treats and offered one to his familiar.

He didn't even realize how close Blaine had gotten until he spoke.

"Is that…" he sounded breathless. "Is that a bloody _Golden Bubo_?" Kurt nodded, and Pav ruffled his feathers. The movement sent small golden glimmers across Blaine's face. "I've never seen one in person before! And it's your pet? I'd thought they were one big bloody myth!"

Pav hooted in indignation.

"How did you find him?" Blaine asked, the wonder on his face and in his tone almost tangible.

"You know the stories," Kurt said softly, pushing another treat towards his bird. "They come to you in times of great need, and only if they deem your soul worthy. I didn't find him…he found me. Pavarotti had already visited me twice by the time he let me keep him. The third trip is binding, if made."

"Fucking hell," Blaine said. "You must've had some bad time, eh?"

Kurt licked his lips and brushed his fingers against Pav's head, and the familiar nestled his feathers against the touch of his friend. "The first time it was after my mum died. Bloody cancer," he laughed, bitter. "All of the things we can do with magic, and _cancer_ is still incurable."

There was a moment of silence, and Kurt feared briefly that he'd said too much.

"And…the second time?"

"My dad…he went missing for two weeks, once. Before he and Carole – my step mum – got married." He looked at Blaine, eyes large and tired and a dark blue that the Gryffindor found mesmerizing. "Death Eaters."

The words were flat as they rolled off Kurt's tongue. Blaine's eyes widened in understanding.

_"Oh."_

Neither said anything for a little while after that, and Blaine hesitantly poked a finger through the bars of Pav's cage. The bird eyed him warily for a second, before it extended a wing and brushed feathers gently against Blaine's skin. "I've never heard of one actually bonding to a wizard before. Merlin, there's only been about three sightings of 'em throughout history. It's mint." Pav puffed out his chest and ruffled his feathers a little, preening under all of the attention.

"He likes you," Kurt observed, a touch of surprise in his tone. "He usually only likes me."

"I love him," Blaine declared, straightening back up.

"You're going to give him quite the ego."

Pav cocked his head at Kurt and slanted his eyes as if to say, _Don't ruin this for me._

"Do they really molt off their white feathers for golden ones?"

Kurt nodded, impressed with the amount of knowledge Blaine was displaying about the Golden Bubo. "Twice a year, actually; once at the winter solstice and once at the summer solstice. The gold only lasts for a week or two before fading mostly back to white." He fed Pav one last treat and took a good long look at Blaine while the bird nibbled at his fingers. "You know a lot about this."

Blaine's cheeks flushed a little, and he gave a sheepish smile. "A've been fascinated by Care of Magical Creatures since I was a firstie, and my mam used to read 'The Adventures of Beeblebrox the Bubo' to me when I was small. I think I read every damn book in our library on the Golden Bubo before I moved onto Hippogriffs and the like. And dragons. I could talk about dragons all fucking night."

Kurt suppressed a small laugh as Blaine rambled on, and found himself amused by the way his vowels drew out when he said "fuck." The word was a slurred representation of itself, turning into "fooking," and Blaine's sentences always lilted up in tone and pitch towards the end, making it seem as though he were surprised by or questioning everything that came out of his own mouth. It was such a change from Finn's Irish brogue and his own London accent.

He spoke with such animation that Kurt just sat and listened, seldom interjecting his own opinion. Usually he would have kicked off at a person who blathered on this much (as he was known to do when this small witch in his house named Rachel Berry wouldn't shut her mouth for just one blessed minute) but Blaine's earnest attention and interest in whatever tidbits Kurt had to offer was…refreshing.

Kurt suddenly realized that Blaine was staring at him with an expectant look on his face. He shook his head. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"Aye. I've been goin' on about myself for a good few hours. I want to hear about you. Tell 's everything."

"You can't possibly want to know everything," Kurt demurred, rising once more to put Pavarotti back on the compartment shelf.

"Probably not," Blaine agreed easily. "Got to save some mystery for later, yeah?"

Kurt turned to him, eyebrows raised in surprise and tongue ready to ask, _There was going to be a later?_ when a loud bang rattled the windows of their door. Kurt looked over immediately and felt his stomach sink into his shoes.

Dave Karofsky loomed in the doorway as he slid the door open with intent, an ugly sneer on his face. "Hullo, Hummel," he said, taking a step forward. "Long time no see, eh?"

Kurt stood his ground and glared. "Not long enough, Karofsky."

The Slytherin's smirk only grew. He extended one meaty finger and trailed it down Kurt's face, highlighting a nearly invisible scar that ran from the top of Kurt's ear to the corner of his jawline. "I see my gift healed up nicely." Kurt slapped his hand away, cheeks mottled and flushed in anger. "What a pity."

"Get out of here, Karofsky," Kurt bit out. His hand itched to reach for the mahogany wand in his front pocket. The bully took yet another step forward.

"Who's gonna make me? You? Half-Blood Hummel?" He laughed. "What could a queer fucker like you do to—"

Then, suddenly, Kurt felt something—_someone_—warm and solid behind him. Blaine's arm extended towards Karofsky, wand firmly clenched in one steady hand. "Two against one," Blaine murmured, and withdrew Kurt's wand from his trouser pocket for him and pressed it into the Ravenclaw's shaking palm. "I may be a short bugger, but I know my way around a hex." His voice was level and strong and quiet, his threat clear. His accent had even seemed to level out, and he stared at Karofsky with a burning intensity.

Kurt wanted to _kiss_ him.

Karofsky's chest puffed out in indignation, his eyes darting warily from Kurt to Blaine to the wands pointed directly at him. He backed out of the car with a slow wink at Kurt, a silent promise that they'd be seeing each other again. He turned and left, but neither boy relaxed until they could no longer hear his footsteps.

Kurt's face burned in shame.

Blaine exhaled loudly next to him, and pressed a comforting hand between Kurt's shoulder blades. "The fuck is his problem?" he asked, looking up with vast amounts of concern in his bright hazel eyes.

Kurt shrugged him off, angrily brushing at the tears in his eyes. "It's not important."

"Shut up, man," Blaine said, firmly. "It is. He threatened you." He eyed the thin scar on Kurt's face. "He **hurt** you."

Kurt's knees finally buckled and he sank heavily into the plush leather of the bench. He pushed the heels of his palms against his eyes and said, miserably, "He hates me."

The seat dipped and leather creaked gently as Blaine sat down next to him. "Why?"

"Because…I'm a half-blood." The words tasted like acid; blood discrimination burned him deeply, especially since it was a dying trend. The utter ignorance of some people never failed to infuriate him. "And I'm gay. Two things he seems to take personal offense to, though I couldn't tell you why. Bloody Neanderthal," he spat out.

Blaine's hand ran a soothing path up and down his spine. "When I was young," his voice was soft, the Newcastle accent less strong the lower his voice got. "I knew that I was different than other boys. Never wanted to hold a girl's hand, wasn't interested in kissin' them. They figured it out before I did, and I spent my last year in muggle school getting pushed around and called names and beaten up. When I got my letter from Hogwarts, I thought that it was a chance to run away, get away from all the chavs there. But my mam told me that it wouldn't make me happy…that running and avoiding the problem was the coward's way out."

Kurt's breath hitched in his chest, tears dripping down his smooth skin. "What'd you do?"

"Oh, I ran," Blaine admitted. "Ran like a bloody fool off to Hogwarts the first chance I got, after a summer holiday spent indoors. And she was right…it didn't make me feel any better. But I was a bloody wizard, and being at Hogwarts I had friends for the first time, and gained some confidence. And I went back home and punched those buggers in the face. Got a black eye or two for my efforts, but I stood up for myself. I let them know they couldn't treat me that way anymore." He winced. "I also may have cast a Bat Bogey Hex my brother taught me on one of them, so they steered clear of the 'freak' after that, but the fact remains." He presses his thumb against the nape of Kurt's neck. "Have some courage, man."

"That's more of a Gryffindor trait, actually," Kurt says, doing his best to suppress the shivers that Blaine's touch is sending down his spine. "I'm more quiet wit and biting sarcasm."

"So use them," Blaine urged, scooting ever nearer. Kurt could smell the faint traces of whatever aftershave the curly headed wizard had used that morning. It smelled like something from the Brown & Patil line of products for men, and underneath that spicy scent was the natural musk of teenaged boy. It made his head spin. "Use your skills to your advantage. What classes are your best?"

"Potions. And Charms."

Blaine grinned at him, and bumped their shoulders together. "Volatile, aye."

Kurt looked at him through his eyelashes, and their gazes caught and held. Blaine's smile dimmed in its intensity but never disappeared, instead becoming gentler as his eyes flickered between Kurt's blue irises and his lush lips. He leaned forward slightly, and Kurt's breath was catching in his chest and he was moving forward and _bloody hell_—

An insistent set of knuckles tapping against their glass door interrupted them. A Prefect, looking bored as could be, gave them muffled instructions to change into their robes because the train would be pulling into Hogwarts within the hour. Kurt, who was already dressed in his black trousers, dark grey sweater, and blue and bronze tie, only needed to shrug on his formal robes and was thus extremely irritated with the interruption.

He sighed, turning back to Blaine. He was well aware that the moment was broken, but when their eyes met it lacked the awkward quality that he had been expecting. "Ah, well," Blaine muttered, and gently pushed a lock of hair off of Kurt's forehead. "There's always that later I mentioned, yeah?" He twirled his wand in the fingers of one hand, and in the other formed a half-bloomed rose. Blaine handed the flower to Kurt and stood, gathering his uniform from the compartment above his seat. He walked away with the promise to return in ten minutes, and left Kurt alone in their compartment with only the feel of a flower stem between his fingertips.

Kurt rotated the halfway-bloomed rose, looking at the contours of the petals and the swirl of pink into white, and felt himself begin to grin.

He _loved _magic.


	4. Crowd

**Title: **for decisions and revisions (which a minute will reverse)  
><strong>Media: <strong>fanfic**  
>Author:<strong> geordie_lover  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Kurt/Blaine  
><strong>Rating: <strong>M (oh, look! there's that rating change!)**  
><strong>**Disclaimer: **Glee, Kurt, and Blaine all belong to FOX.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Five ways that Kurt and Blaine didn't meet, and the one way they did.  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Eventually through 2x16, "Original Song," but not until Ch. 6  
><strong>Warning: <strong>This gets a bit smutty. If that's not what you're looking for, I would go elsewhere.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> I have never before written gay sex in my life. I've read a ton of it (God bless fanfiction), but this is my first foray into the world of smut and I can only hope I did it justice. Also, this is the longest chapter to date (4488 words WHERE DID YOU COME FROM) and I don't even know how that happened.

* * *

><p>This New Years Eve was not turning out the way that Kurt had expected it to. He was dressed fabulously, he was in crowded New York City to watch the ball drop in Time's Square, and he was with some of his best friends in the whole world.<p>

He felt utterly alone.

He watched with a sense of longing as Finn pressed a kiss to the crown of Quinn's head, as Puck wrapped an arm around Rachel, and as Sam pushed an insistent kiss against Mercedes' mouth (that was a recent development, and if the loud laughter and stumbling steps the two had been exhibiting all night was any indication, alcohol definitely was a factor in this affection). He _wants_ that. He wanted someone to kiss at midnight, someone to huddle close to in the frigid New York air, someone to hold hands with.

He just wanted _someone._

Kurt sighed, watching the numbers on the giant clock tick down. All around him the thick and endless crowd was jostling with activity, voices rising and clashing against one another in a dull roar. His mind swam, lost in thought and dizzy from the buzz of alcohol.

They had been bar hopping all night before fighting their way through Times Square, and while Kurt was probably the least drunk out of their whole group, he was definitely toeing the line of tipsy and intoxicated. It wasn't nearly as bad, compared to the others—he and Rachel had actually managed to convince everyone to go to a gay bar at one point.

That was where Kurt had done most of his drinking. He had been dancing to the music, still alone, and sipping at mojitos, and watching jealously as the gay men around him ground against their dance partners, mouths hot and wet and attitudes all about, "Fuck it, it's New Years Eve."

There had been a fleeting moment when he had spied a pair of hazel eyes watching him from across the room, halfway hidden under a curly head of hair, but Mercedes had gotten his attention and by the time he'd turned back around, the stranger was gone.

C'est la vie.

Kurt shoved his hands further into the pockets of his pea coat and bounced on the balls of his feet, staring intently at the constantly moving numbers above. Five minutes to go, and he could return to the safety of his lush bed and warm room and just sleep for the remainder of his time off of work. Eventually, his gaze fell back down towards the crowd, perusing the couples (drunk, sober, gay, or straight) all around him, bundled up with the person they had claimed for kissing at midnight. He sighed, breath curling in the cold air.

There was suddenly a loud, boisterous laugh to his left and he looked over, curiosity getting the better of him.

There, standing in a brown leather coat with a red scarf wrapped around his neck and his head thrown back in laughter, was the mystery man from the gay club. Kurt took a moment to look at him, and admire the way the neon lights glinted off of dark and glossy curls. He watched the movement of the stranger's jawline as he spoke, and noticed how good his shoulders looked in leather.

A short girl with a platinum blonde pixie haircut nudged the object of Kurt's attention, and when the man looked at her she gestured in Kurt's direction with a small smirk. Kurt immediately redirected his gaze elsewhere, cheeks flushing deep in humiliation. He dutifully looked anywhere but back over to the man for a few moments, and when he finally dared look over from beneath his eyelashes, he froze when his vision suddenly narrowed down to two hazel irises and an easy smile.

The stranger grinned at him and tilted two fingers in a small wave. Kurt pressed his lips together in a closed smile and gave a short jerk of the head, and looked back towards the giant clock as nonchalantly as possible.

Three and a half minutes.

Kurt glanced back over at his friends, and felt sadness weigh down on his shoulders when he caught sight of each of them locked in an embrace of some sort. He looked down at his shoes and scuffed the sole of his converse against the asphalt. His hair fell over his eyes, blocking his peripheral vision. Had Kurt been able to see to his left, even the tiniest amount, he would have noticed the way the man he'd exchanged nods with a few seconds before was frowning at his curved shoulders and hanging head.

He would have noticed that the stranger was making excuses to his friends and pushing his way through the crowd, trying to make up the short distance.

Kurt sniffed, nose running from the cold and the tears he wouldn't let fall. Suddenly, a hand touched his elbow. Intentionally. He looked up. The stranger grinned and leaned forward, lips brushing against the shell of Kurt's ear. "I'm Blaine," he yelled, loud enough so that Kurt could hear him. "You looked lonely."

"It's nice to meet you, too," Kurt yelled back. Blaine had the decency to look a little embarrassed at his greeting. "I'm Kurt."

Blaine licked his lips before he leaned forward, and all Kurt could think about was _his tongue and his bottom lip and would their teeth clash if they kissed?_ "My friend said you were staring at me. You seem familiar."

"I was at the Pink Hippo tonight," Kurt said, wondering if Blaine would catch the hint.

Judging by the sparkle that ignited in two hazel eyes, mission accomplished.

"Mojito boy?"

Kurt started, and stared at Blaine in incredulity. "Pardon?"

Blaine blushed and looked towards his feet. Had he said that out loud? "My friend, she uh…" he gestured over towards the short blonde, who seemed to be hellbent on sucking the soul out of a tall redheaded man via his lips. "She saw me watching you. Called you 'Mojito Boy' all night."

"I am twenty-three, thank you very much," Kurt said indignantly, because _yeah_, that's the part of the explanation he had glommed onto; never-mind the admission about watching Kurt on the dance floor. "I'm not a boy."

"Mojito Man sounds like a bad superhero. With like, cocktail prowess."

_Touché._

Kurt's eyes flickered back over towards the clock. Less than two minutes left. People around them were starting to chant along with the dwindling numbers, calling out the time as it crept closer and closer to January 1st.

"So, you're gay, right?" he asked loudly, then looked mortified as his words hit his own ears. _Oh, God, I am never drinking around attractive people ever again._

Blaine barked out a surprised laugh, throwing his head back again. Kurt's eyes strayed towards his Adam's apple as it bobbed beneath slightly scruffy skin. "Very much so," Blaine answered, grinning. "And you?"

Kurt raised an eyebrow at him, as if to say, _Do you really need to ask that?_ Blaine held up his hands and shook his head, smile still firmly intact. "Just making sure, darling."

Oh…_darling._ Kurt could get used to alcohol if it made gorgeous strangers slur compliments at him.

There was a flurry of excitement and activity as the countdown reached the one-minute mark, and Kurt and Blaine's eyes met. Everything – time, space, and the excitement – seemed to slow down around them. Blaine's eyes flickered down towards Kurt's lips, and then his tongue darted out to lick his own. He leaned forward again, mouth an inch away from Kurt's ear and warm breath soothing against Kurt's chilled skin. "I don't mean to be forward," he yelled. "But…do you have anyone to kiss at midnight?"

Kurt's breath hitched in his chest and he cocked a surprised eyebrow. "What?"

He watched Blaine's face fall the tiniest amount. "Oh, of course you do," the shorter man said hurriedly, and backed away from Kurt a little bit. Kurt followed him, maintaining their close proximity. "I just thought…you seemed…"

"I don't," Kurt interrupted. He felt a grin begin to stretch across his lips, his cheeks begin to flush, and his heart begin to pound.

_**Forty-five!**_

"Oh," Blaine breathed, looking significantly happier. He looked down towards Kurt's hand, ungloved and exposed, and pried the nearly frozen fingers apart delicately. He rubbed the frozen limb between the wool of his gloves, and brought Kurt's fingers to his mouth and blew hot air across the digits. The action warmed his fingers only marginally, but heat spread to the rest of Kurt's body the minute Blaine touched him.

**Thirty-seven!**

"So, was that an offer?" Kurt asked finally, feeling his head spin with happiness and alcohol.

"If you wanted it to be," Blaine said, grinning in turn. His hands never gave up on the task of reheating Kurt's fingers. When the sensation had returned enough, Kurt flexed his hand and interlocked their grip, holding on as tight as he dared.

**Thirty!**

"I want it to be."

"I'm glad."

**Twenty-seven!**

"So, just to clarify," Kurt said, keeping his eyes trained on the New Years Ball as it slid slowly towards the clock. "You don't have a boyfriend, right? You're not alone on New Years in Times Square because he couldn't make it, and you just needed a random gay guy to kiss?"

Blaine's gaze darted between Kurt's profile and the countdown. "Uh, no. Considering I'm the one who asked for a kiss, that would be a big no. Should I be worried about the same thing?"

Kurt snorted indelicately. "Please," he said loudly, and briefly glanced back towards his companion. "I don't even have a single option for a boyfriend."

**Thirteen!**

Blaine's fingers tightened around his own. "I'm here. You've got one, now," he whispered, directly into Kurt's ear, and his voice was low and gravelly.

Kurt's cock twitched in his pants.

**Ten!**

The cries of the crowd grew louder, the words blurring and resonating throughout the city and vibrating Kurt's feet with their intensity, and Blaine was staring at him with those bright eyes and Jesus fucking Christ, couldn't it be midnight already?

**Three!**

Blaine reached up and slid a wool covered hand into the thick hair at the nape of Kurt's neck, gripping the strands firmly.

**Two!**

Kurt reached forward and slid his free palm against Kurt's jaw, hooking his fingers behind the other man's ear and twining dark curls through the spaces.

**One!**

Kurt leaned down until their lips were a breath apart.

**Zero!**

The cheers of the crowd were lost on them as Blaine rose up and pressed his lips firmly against Kurt's, sending the latter stumbling back a step with the kiss' intensity. Their mouths relaxed against one another, their lips pressing and pushing and fitting together perfectly. Blaine pressed his tongue against the crease of Kurt's mouth, and their tongues met in the middle.

The hands that they had been holding fell away from one another, and Kurt wrapped his newly freed arm around Blaine's waist and pulled him in, pressing their hips together. Both of Blaine's hands were firmly entwined in Kurt's hair, pushing their mouths against each other harder and harder. Blaine sucked Kurt's lower lip into his mouth and sank his teeth down lightly into it, smiling when the taller man huffed out a moan against Blaine's mouth.

Their tongues were slick against each other, their grips unrelenting. Kurt felt like he was drowning in Blaine.

Blaine could feel the earth move beneath his feet.

They carried on this way long after the initial celebrations had died down, just tasting each other for the first time and relishing the contact between them. Blaine stroked his wooly thumb across Kurt's cheek as they kissed sluggishly, alcohol and desire weighing down their movements.

Finally, when air became a necessity, they pulled apart and stared at one another, two sets of eyes blackened with arousal.

A hand clapped down on Kurt's shoulder, hard, and he jumped. Both of them looked over Kurt's shoulder at Sam, who was grasping onto Mercedes and Kurt as if he couldn't stand up straight without them.

Clearly, the four Irish Car Bombs he'd done at a bar earlier were hitting him hard.

"Kurt," he yelled, eyes unfocused and voice much louder than necessary. "Kurt. We…need to go. We need to go. Because I…I am drunk and I am…" Fuzzy blue eyes landed on Blaine, whose face was twisted into an odd mix of amusement and sexual frustration. Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. "Were you always standing there?"

Mercedes, who was giggling happily but at a much less intoxicated level than Sam, pulled the blonde boy away and started chastising him about cockblocking.

Kurt rolled his shoulders back and looked towards Blaine, whose hazel eyes were glimmering in the light and catching the colored tints of the confetti still fluttering around them. "I probably…" Kurt breathed, gaze dropping down towards the other man's lips. They were slightly swollen and still wet from when they'd parted and dear God, too perfect. He looked back towards his friends, all standing on a sidewalk nearby and waiting as patiently as six drunk people could. When he turned back around, he could see the group of people Blaine had been with previously, waiting in a huddle. "Your friends are waiting for you," he said. Blaine glanced over his shoulder, and signaled to the increasingly impatient blonde girl to just give him one more second. Kurt's eyes followed the movement. "I should make sure they get home alright," he said, and couldn't even be bothered to hide the regret in his voice. "I should go."

He pressed another small kiss to Blaine's mouth and pulled away, shoving his cold hands into his jacket pockets and turning towards his friends. Well, that's it, he thought despairingly. I meet the perfect guy and I get kissed at midnight in Times Square and this is all so amazing and now I have to leave, and I'll never -

Blaine's hand gripped his, firmly. "I'll come with you," he shouted, still struggling to be heard over the crowd. Kurt froze in his tracks. Blaine tugged on his arm, pulling Kurt back around to face him. "Look, I've been…I've been alone for a long time. Not in a weird way, or anything, but…I miss being with someone. And I'm the kind of guy that when I find someone worth trying for, I'm not gonna let you go."

Kurt still had a stunned look on his face. He could feel it. "We've known each other for about five minutes," he pointed out.

Blaine shrugged. "So I'm a hopeless romantic," he said, moving closer. "I'm coming with you."

Maybe Kurt would have put up a bigger argument if he hadn't been moderately tipsy, if he hadn't been in an unwanted spell of celibacy for the past year, if he hadn't locked eyes with Blaine and seen sincerity and anxiety and want. Any damning protests he might have made died in his throat, and he grinned and gave one nod of the head.

Blaine's fingers tightened even further around his hand when the dark haired man turned around to signal to his friend through the crowd. He waved his open palm, trying to get her attention, and then pointed at Kurt and mouthed the words, "I'm going with him."

Understanding lit up her face immediately and she grinned at them. She winked and put her pinky and thumb up by her ear, mouthed call me, and then balled her fists together and pulled her elbows back against her hips as she gave a drunken thrust.

Blaine turned around immediately and gripped Kurt by the shoulders, marching him backwards. His cheeks were rouged a little more than before, embarrassment adding to the coloring. "Okay, well, let's go," he chattered, and Kurt laughed breathlessly.

The journey back to his apartment was a blur of drunken stumbling and the warmth of Blaine's hand in his, and the way Blaine would press himself against Kurt's back when they were stopped at a crosswalk and push a kiss against the cold skin of Kurt's neck, and the way that Kurt couldn't think about anything other than getting Blaine inside his and Mercedes' apartment and pushing him up against the door.

Which was exactly what he did.

His hands were shaking, from cold and nerves, when they got to the apartment. Sam and Mercedes weren't being of any use, and Blaine was standing close enough to be distracting but far away enough not to be imposing. Kurt appreciated the gesture, really, he did, but Blaine's mere presence seemed to send small thrills racing up and down his spine.

As Mercedes and Sam stumbled, laughing still, into her bedroom and shut the door with a loud 'bang,' Kurt calmly closed the front door to the apartment and set the deadbolt. Blaine walked in, taking slow and careful steps as he glanced around the modest space. "I like your place," he said, looking up at the large photograph of Kurt and Mercedes that had been copied onto canvas.

Kurt hung his keys up on a hook by the door, and shrugged off his jacket. "It's not much, I know. The kitchen's just through there, if you want anything to drink. Other than that, it's just the living room, Mercedes' room, and my room."

When he turned around after putting his jacket in the small closet by the front door, he started when he saw just how close Blaine was. "I think," said Blaine, pulling at his scarf until it fell away from his neck. His fingers started on the buttons of his jacket and Kurt felt his breath hitch, and his eyes fixated on the movement. Blaine pulled his jacket off of his shoulders, and the leather fell to the ground.

Neither noticed nor cared.

Blaine stepped forward and ran a hand along the back of Kurt's neck, fingers rubbing small circles into skin and mussing up hair. "I think I'd like to see your room," he said plainly.

Kurt began walking backwards and Blaine followed him, his hand falling out of Kurt's windblown and confetti-covered hair to start pulling at the various buttons of his shirt. His fingers were warm as they pressed against Kurt's chest, slowly baring porcelain skin to the air.

When they had finally crossed over the threshold of Kurt's dark room, one of their hands reached out and flicked the light switch, and the other one shut the door soundly.

And then, looking down at Blaine who was slowly undressing him and gazing up at him with those bright eyes that were more green than brown in the dim lighting, Kurt couldn't take it anymore.

He cupped Blaine's face in both hands, sliding his fingertips into dark curls, and pressed their lips together, hard. He took a few steps forward that sent Blaine stumbling back until Kurt was pushing him up against the door, hips tight against each other. Blaine's hands scrabbled for purchase in the halfway unbuttoned shirt he had previously been pulling on and fingers that had once been so sure trembled as he worked the buttons. When Kurt's shirt was completely undone, Blaine slid his warm and slightly calloused hands up Kurt's chest and pushed the fabric off of his shoulders, breath catching when he heard the rustle of clothing hitting the floor.

Kurt pulled back for air and leaned his forehead against Blaine's, eyes shut. He tugged at the hem of the sweater Blaine had on, pulling it up and only separating their heads from one another in order to remove the shirt completely.

There was a tense moment of silence when they were pressed against each other, chest to chest and bare skin against bare skin, and then Blaine reached up and pulled Kurt's mouth back against his own.

Lips and tongues and teeth clashed against each other as they gave in. Kurt's mind was spinning and he was moving backwards with Blaine's hands pulling at his belt and sliding down his pants and oh.

He gave a shuddering gasp and ripped his mouth away from Blaine's, moving his lips down the other man's neck. He breathed heavily against the skin there, thighs trembling and hands tightening where they lay as Blaine stroked and pulled at his erection.

"Oh, God," he whimpered, and when Blaine nipped lightly at his shoulder, his knees buckled.

Blaine followed him as Kurt lay down on his bed, and forced him to scoot back until they could both lie down comfortably. He lifted his head but didn't stop the motions of his hand as he spoke. "I think you should take your pants off."

"That," Kurt began, but broke off with a strangled moan when Blaine's fingers brushed briefly over the head of his penis. "That…might be the best idea…ever."

"I'll do it for you," Blaine said eventually, when Kurt showed no obvious signs of ever moving. He pulled his hand out of Kurt's underwear and tugged at the black denim that encased long legs.

After a few minutes, following an embarrassing incident where Kurt almost kneed Blaine in the face, both of them were stretched out on Kurt's bed, naked bodies pressed together. Blaine nudged Kurt's knees apart with one of his own and then straddled his hips. He leaned down and pressed their foreheads together again, kissing at Kurt's lips intermittently as he rocked their hips against each other.

The pre-cum coming from both of them added a small amount of lubrication to the movement, and Kurt could have almost cried from how close he was and how perfect and right this all felt. Their arms wound around one another, holding on tight as they writhed their bodies together, and their mouths were either pressed against each other or biting down on whatever expanse of skin they could reach.

Eventually, it got to be too much. Blaine planted his hands on either side of Kurt's face and he pushed himself up a few inches. "Do you have…"

"Drawer," Kurt answered immediately, nodding sideways to the nightstand next to his bed. He craned his head up and kissed at Blaine's neck when he leaned over to open up the small drawer. The gesture made Blaine's search for lube and condoms a bit more difficult, but after a second or two of bumbling around, he managed to find what he was looking for.

He tossed them on the pillow next to Kurt's head, and pushed their lips together again, frantic for connection. He reached down with one hand and hooked his fingers under Kurt's knee, pulling at the limb until it was hitched over his own hip. He dragged his fingers down the back of Kurt's thigh until he found –

Kurt arched up against him with a cry when Blaine pressed his finger lightly against him. Blaine pulled away only long enough to slick his finger up with a little lube, and then he was dragging his finger there again. He pressed it forward a little bit, eyes hot and lidded and almost black with arousal as he watched Kurt's reaction.

Blue eyes flew open wide and his lips fell apart with a guttural moan. Slender hands gripped at Blaine's shoulders tightly and he pushed his hips down against the mattress and against the finger inside of him.

Blaine's hips never stopped moving against Kurt's even as he thrust his finger in and out. Encouraged by the moans he was eliciting, he pulled his hand away only so that he could lubricate his other fingers to his satisfaction.

There were two fingers, and Kurt's forehead was beaded in sweat. Then there were three, and it felt amazing and he just wanted Blaine to, "Fuck me."

The words were breathy and quiet, the curse rare as it fell from Kurt's lips. Blaine gave a hard thrust in response, pushing their erections against one another firmly. He carefully pulled his fingers away and grabbed a condom, tearing open the wrapper and leaning back so that he could put it on himself.

Once the latex was rolled down his length and Blaine was sure it was secure, he fell forward again and kissed Kurt messily. Their tongues were slick against one another, their lips bruised and tingling from all the kissing they had been doing, and both of their faces were flushed and damp with sweat and desire.

Blaine pressed into Kurt, sliding in as slowly as possible in order to get Kurt adjusted to his size and width. Kurt pulled at the fabric on either side of his head, breath harsh and heavy. He was almost crying (it had been so long since he had done this, since someone wanted him, and it hurt a bit but when Blaine moved it felt so good.)

Blaine thrust in completely, and his chin fell forward towards his chest as he tried to regain control. "Kurt," he whispered. The other man wrapped his long legs around Blaine's hips in response, and Blaine folded an arm above Kurt's head and laced their fingers together as they fucked.

"I…this won't take long," Kurt warned him, lips ghosting over Blaine's cheek. "I'm sorry. It's been a while."

Blaine's only response was to pull out slowly and thrust back in, fast and hard. Kurt's head strained backwards immediately, a hitching groan wrenched from him almost as if by force. The sound propelled Blaine further, and he was almost relentless in his motions from there.

He reached a hand down between them and stroked Kurt's erection, dragging a thumb across the weeping head and then down the shaft and over his balls and pressing at a spot just an inch or two below them. Kurt cried out his name, and Blaine smiled against his newfound lover's neck.

Their movements were unhurried, but had a sense of urgency that neither had felt before. It didn't last nearly as long as it could have, and Kurt was the first to fall apart, just as he'd warned. He locked his legs around Blaine, hard, and came with a low moan of "Blaine" as he trembled and shook and spent himself between them.

Blaine leaned back a little and grasped slender hips in two hands, pulling Kurt hard against him as he thrust his way towards orgasm.

When he came, there was little else on his mind other than Kurt's name, the stars bursting behind his eyelids, and the fingers tangled in his hair.

His arms were too weak to hold himself up, and he carefully lowered his body back down against Kurt's. Their mouths touched together, kissing slowly. Blaine pushed the sweaty hair off of Kurt's forehead and gave a tender smile. "Happy New Year," he murmured.

And, despite his exhaustion and the contented feeling settling deep into his bones, Kurt threw back his head and gave a loud and happy laugh.


	5. Sherlock

**Title: **for decisions and revisions (which a minute will reverse)  
><strong>Author:<strong> geordie_lover  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Kurt/Blaine  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T (this chapter)**  
><strong>**Disclaimer: **Glee, Kurt, and Blaine all belong to FOX. The version of "Sherlock" I refer to belongs to the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Five ways that Kurt and Blaine didn't meet, and the one way they did.  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Eventually through 2x16, "Original Song," but not until Ch. 6  
><strong>Notes:<strong>Based on the TV series "Sherlock." If you haven't watched it, do. It's amazing. It's the first Sherlock Holmes anything that's actually made me ship John/Sherlock.

* * *

><p>He had a fucking bomb strapped to his chest.<p>

Blaine could feel the weight of the explosives against him, pulling down on the vest to which they were wired. He carefully pushed his hands into the pockets of the heavy winter coat, and tried to control his breathing when he heard Kurt make his way into the auditorium. He listened to the younger man's voice as it bounced around vaulted ceilings and scuffed stage floors, and winced when he heard the hushed tone come through the piece in his ear.

_"Time for the show, Anderson."_

A red light flickered against his chest, briefly and in warning. He braced himself by squeezing his eyes shut tight, and moved.

The dense fabric of the curtains brushed against him, rustling in his wake as he stepped out. Blaine's shoes creaked quietly against the floor, and he opened his eyes and trained a steady gaze onto Kurt.

The tall, lithe man stood there, arm halfway extended into the air and a small USB drive clasped in his hand. The look on his face…Blaine swallowed. He forgot sometimes just how childlike Kurt could look in his expressions, and the plain shock and _hurt_that tightened the detective's lips and sent his Adam's apple bobbing struck Blaine like a physical blow.

"Blaine?" Kurt said, voice low and disbelieving. His arm began to lower slowly. "What the hell-"

"Come, now," he said, voice dull as Jeremiah forced words into his mouth. "You can't be this surprised."

Kurt's eyes flickered in hurt before they shuttered off completely, and it made Blaine feel suddenly and utterly determined. He might have had enough explosives to bring this building down strapped to his chest, but he wasn't about to let Kurt die with him.

And, before Jeremiah's disgustingly smooth voice reverberated in his ears again, he thought to himself, despairingly: _How did I get here?_

OOOOO

If he never heard the words 'psychosomatic' again, it would only be too soon. Blaine's therapist tossed the word around like it was a damn football. Yes, okay, so a majority of his leg injury was in his head. It didn't mean he hadn't gotten _shot_, a fact the idiotic man seemed to forget constantly. Will's words bounced around inside his head, soft and cloying and condescending and _the man hadn't ever been to Afghanistan or Iraq and Blaine had been to both countries and been shot twice in one and what the fuck did Will even know about the war anyway?_

Blaine always considered himself to be a man that could keep his temper under control – he'd always operated under the firm belief that acting on your impulses only led to trouble. But now, his hand was shaking and his leg was about to give out and his shoulder was killing him, and his knuckles were just _aching_to come into contact with Will's cheekbone.

His cane clacked firmly against the ground, his anger making his movements erratic. People in Central Park stared as him as he walked by, a ball of poorly concealed irritation. A small red blur passed by him.

"Blaine?"

He almost didn't hear her. Almost. He did, though, and kept moving despite it.

"Blaine! Blaine Anderson!"

He paused and rolled his shoulders back, bracing himself. Encountering people who knew the Blaine he used to be before the war is always awkward – they either expect him to be the same cheerful, dapper guy, or they walk on eggshells and treat him like he's a ticking timebomb.

A small woman walks up to him, brown hair swirling around her face and smile wide. "It's me, Rachel Berry! From Johns Hopkins?"

Abruptly, he well and truly recognized her and her bright eyes and the way she always made him feel so tall. His smile became genuine instead of strained and he couldn't stop but think about the way he and Rachel used to stay up late, studying medical books and testing each other before their exams. It was Rachel, who'd always been so understanding of everyone she'd ever met and who wouldn't blame him for being Not Quite Blaine the way she remembered him.

Which is the only reason he limped forward a step or two and gave her a brief hug. Rachel clutched at him, happily, and when they pulled away her hands were wrapped around his forearms. "We _must_catch up!" she said, loudly, and started tugging him towards an empty bench. He followed with a wince, leg protesting as he staggered forward.

When they'd finally settled down on the bench, Rachel turned her body towards him with interest. "What happened?"

Blaine had missed having people speak to him so bluntly. Rachel was a bit of a relief that way. The facts slipped from his lips easily. "Bullet to the shoulder, through and through. Nerve damage, extensive scarring. A bullet graze to the upper thigh from a ricochet, damage minor. Experienced blood loss and brief cardiac arrest, but received CPR and was revived." He gave her a wry smile. "Obviously."

Rachel gave him a small smile in response, her eyes flickering over his face and down towards his shoulder briefly. She looked sympathetic, but only because of his injuries. He now knew the difference between the look someone got on their face when they thought he was traumatized, and the look they got when they were imagining his injuries.

Rachel seemed simply curious, so he would let her lingering eyes go without a second thought. "So," she said, brightly, flicking her eyes back up towards his face and brushing her hair over her shoulder. "Are you staying in New York for long?"

Blaine shook his head ruefully, glancing out over the sprawling park in front of him. "No, I can't afford New York on the GI pay," he told her, and knew that the tinge of regret he felt was infused into his voice. "I've been staying in a hotel for the past week."

"Well, what about a roommate?" she pressed, and he felt her inch a little bit closer.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, then back down towards his ugly metal cane. "I don't think anyone would want me for a roommate," he told her, scoffing.

She didn't say anything right away, and when he looked at her again he felt himself grow wary at the mischievous smile on her face. "Oh, God," he muttered, leaning away from her. "What's going through your brain?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today," she announced, and stood abruptly. "Come on."

Blaine looked at her extended hand and ignored it, choosing to use his cane for leverage as he pushed himself out of the bench. "Where are we going?"

Rachel grinned up at him, and he could see the plotting whirring gears behind her eyes. "You'll see."

OOOOO

Rachel led him to the hospital where she worked, walking slowly so as not to aggravate his leg any further, and even hailed down a cab when Blaine visibly started to wince. Now, the sound of his cane against tile was reverberating through the halls of the hospital. It only served to remind him, with every click of metal, that he was now defunct. Rachel eventually stopped in front of a large gray door with a small glass window, and he peered through, curious.

"You brought me…to a lab?" He raised his eyebrows at her, feeling utterly unimpressed. "Why?"

She rolled her eyes and pushed the door open, gesturing for him to walk inside. Blaine did as he was told, still looking at her warily, and turned his attention to his surroundings.

He whistled, low. "It's different than Johns Hopkins, I'll give you that," he told her.

"Most everything was just updated within the past month," Rachel told him, voice quiet. She waved her hand, and Blaine followed her gaze to a young man he hadn't even noticed.

Thick brown hair was all he could see, bent over a microscope. He could only glimpse the other man's profile, but Blaine tilted his head in interest at the sight of a straight and slightly upturned nose, a strong jawline, and the way the other man's neck seemed so strong.

The stranger suddenly moved his head, looking at Blaine out of the corner of his eyes. Blue suddenly pierced through him, and Blaine blinked stupidly.

"Rachel," he said, and moved his gaze back to the microscope. Pale hands carefully twisted different knobs. "Can I borrow your phone? I think I left mine in the morgue."

Rachel's hand disappeared into her pocket and she pulled out a pink and bedazzled Blackberry. She ran her thumb over the keys and winced. "Sorry, my battery's dead."

The stranger made a rather put-upon sound, huffing in exasperation.

Blaine fished around in his jacket pocket and pulled out his iPhone. "You can use mine," he offered, trying to be friendly.

The blue eyed man straightened his posture and looked at Blaine, giving him a searing once over. He stood, long legs encased in black denim stretching out towards Blaine, and when he finally drew to his full height, Blaine found himself looking up a couple of inches. Their fingers brushed against each other, briefly, as the phone was passed between them.

"How long were you deployed?"

Blaine started. "What?" he asked, and his tone was clipped.

"How long," drawled the stranger again, fingers flying over the touch screen of Blaine's phone. "Were you deployed?" Blaine didn't answer, and instead shot Rachel a hard look. She looked between Blaine and the other man, and nodded her head as if to tell him to give this a chance.

The man looked back up at the two of them and narrowed his eyes. "I don't sleep or talk for days, sometimes. I like to play French music very loudly, and I have a detailed skincare regime that cannot be interrupted once it's begun. Do you have a problem with that?"

Blaine gaped at him for a short minute, and the ground his teeth together. He looked at Rachel again, eyebrows cocked upwards. "So, you told him about me?"

She shook her head, giving him that secretive smile again. "Nope!"

Blaine's phone was pressed back into the palm of his hand, warm to the touch. "Thank you," he said dumbly. The stranger gave him a nod in return as he pulled on a long black jacket and buttoned it up. He perched sunglasses onto coiffed hair and turned to face Blaine head on. His impossibly blue eyes stared at him, hard, and Blaine felt as though they were looking straight into his brain, picking at his every thought and dissecting them with ease. Long, pale fingers pulled a pen and notepad out of a jacket pocket and he began writing, scribbling quickly on the small lined paper.

"Meet me here," he instructed, ripping the page out of his pad. "At noon tomorrow. I did a favor for the landlady a few years ago, and she's promised to lower the rent. I think you and I could afford it together." He swept past Blaine and pushed the paper against the veteran's chest, and Blaine grasped at it quickly before it fell to the ground.

"Wait," he said, sharply, and the other man stopped in his tracks. "I don't know who you are. I'm not moving in with a total stranger."

A slow, smug smirk pulled at the man's full lips. "I know you, though. I know you're an army doctor, deployed in Afghanistan or Iraq, but you were sent home because of an injury. Nothing to do with your leg, though, and your therapist is right in saying it's all in your head. Sorry, but it's true. I'm sure you'll get over it eventually. I know you have problems with your parents, maybe they didn't approve of your decision to go into the army, or maybe your relationship with your father is beyond repair."

Blaine's head spun.

"Kurt Hummel," the man finally said, extending a hand to Blaine. They shook their palms together firmly, and Blaine couldn't ignore the crackle of electricity that raced up his forearm. Those bright, blue green eyes that were pinning him so intently suddenly narrowed a bit, and his brows drew together in a small frown as he looked quickly down towards their joined hands.

Kurt withdrew his hand, fast. His fingers flexed, and he stared down at them with arched eyebrows. "Fascinating," he muttered to himself, and swept out of the room.

Blaine looked at Rachel, feeling utterly stunned at the way the day had turned out. She grinned at him and shrugged, happiness exuded from her every pore. "Is…he always like that?" he said, gesturing towards the still swinging door.

"Every single day," she breathed.

Twenty four hours later, Blaine killed a man for Kurt.

He remembered, in that split second before his finger had tightened around the trigger, that he knew he would do _anything_for this man, including kill those who threatened his life.

He had become fascinated with Kurt ever since their first meeting, when his life had been laid bare just in the bat of an eyelash, and in a hurried conversation as they strode down the street together towards a taped off area, surrounded by police cars.

_"How did you know all that stuff about me?" Blaine demanded, struggling to keep up with Kurt._

The taller man shot him an annoyed look, before turning his gaze forward and talking to the air in front of him. "When you walked into the medical lab, you made a comment about Johns Hopkins being different. Obviously, you're in the medical profession. You walk with a limp but when you stand, it's as if you're awaiting orders and your leg seems perfectly fine. Hence, it's all in your head. You have some truly atrocious tan lines around your neck and wrists, so you weren't anywhere on vacation. I know you have problems with your parents because of your phone. If you're trying to live in New York with a roommate, I don't think you'd buy an iPhone. You don't strike me as the type to buy an iPhone, anyway. Your mother engraved a message on the back, which says it's only from your mother, not your father, but she says that **we**love you. Obviously both parents are alive, but you don't speak to your father or he doesn't talk to you."

Blaine stopped in his tracks. Kurt paused and looked over his shoulder, arching a brow at the doctor. "I also know," he murmured, turning fully and taking two long strides towards Blaine. "That you're gay. But that was from the way you kept subconsciously looking at my lips yesterday. And," he added, gripping Blaine's elbow in one large hand and pulling him along towards the crime scene. "My gaydar is impeccable."

"Yeah?" Blaine muttered, mind still reeling in awe.

"Of course," Kurt says, pulling up the yellow 'CAUTION' tape and ushering Blaine beneath it. "It takes one to know one, after all. Now, come on, there's a body in there and I need to make sure that forensic idiot Karofsky doesn't screw everything up."

Here he stood, a few weeks after that fateful first day, with a bomb strapped to his chest. All because he chose to take a chance on a tall and slender stranger; because he was fascinated by Kurt's sheer brilliance and lack of tact; because no matter how infuriating Kurt can be, or how callous, Blaine would take one look into those piercing eyes and couldn't possible fathom leaving.

He knew that Kurt thought he only stuck around because he missed the danger – craved it, as it were. That was true. But there was something about the consulting detective, how he was so cold and distant but childlike in so many ways…how he's even met Kurt's father, a boisterous and friendly man, and Blaine doesn't understand how they were cut from the same cloth. There's something in the way Kurt _looks_at him, sometimes, like he's a mystery.

Kurt loves mysteries. That's how Blaine wound up in this whole mess, running around the city after a psychopath who insisted on only being referred to as "Jeremiah." That's how Blaine found himself covered in explosives, staring Kurt down as he moved through the aisles of an old, abandoned theater.

"Come, now," he said, voice dull as Jeremiah forced words into his mouth. "You can't be this surprised."

Kurt's eyes flickered in hurt before they shuttered off completely, and it made Blaine feel suddenly and utterly determined. He might have had enough explosives to bring this building down strapped to his chest, but he wasn't about to let Kurt die with him.

_Open up your jacket._

With a barely suppressed sigh, Blaine unzipped the winter coat and parted it, revealing the danger he was in. Kurt stopped, four aisles from the stage, and looked as though he'd been punched in the gut. Watery eyes alternated between the bomb and Blaine's face.

"And the truth comes out," Blaine repeated, staring at a spot just above Kurt's left shoulder. "You should have known I'd use your little friend against you, Kurtie. He was only in our way." He clenched his jaw and turned his head a little, not wanting to continue with this farce.

_Say it, Anderson, or my sniper will kill Hummel where he stands._

Blaine grit his teeth even harder. "I'll take care of him, don't worry," he said. "It won't be too hard to…to get rid of..."

"Shut up."

"Just…" his voice broke. "Just a few handy snipers and you…you won't …"

_"Shut up!_

Kurt's voice was shrill and brittle, and he ascended the stairs to the stage slowly, glancing around the whole auditorium wildly. He seemed to be breathing heavily, and Blaine watched with a tightening feeling in his chest as bright blue eyes locked with his, and then drifted back to the explosives wrapped around Blaine.

The hands gripping Blaine's handgun trembled ever so slightly, and somehow that scared him even more than the bomb.

"Stop being such a coward," Kurt cried out, looking wildly between Blaine and any spot Jeremiah might be hiding. "Show yourself!"

One of the back curtains raised dramatically, slowly revealing a pair of expensive shoes and the bottom half of an Armani suit. Jeremiah smiled, looking utterly unassuming as he regarded Kurt with a pleased and sparkling gaze. "Oh," he crooned, taking a casual step forward. He scuffed his heel along the ground as if he were bashful. "This is _such_a big moment for me. I'm a huge fan, Kurt."

"You're a psychopath," Kurt gritted out between clenched teeth.

Jeremiah's grin turned feral, and the look in his eyes became quietly dangerous. Blaine's muscles tensed, and he quickly looked between Kurt and his kidnapper, ready to spring into action should he be needed.

"Consulting criminal, consulting detective," he said, shrugging. Jeremiah took a step closer to Kurt, and pulled his hands out of his pockets only to fold his arms across his chest. "We're both twisted in our own ways. I bet you've imagined murders every which way, Kurtsie."

"Don't call me that."

"I bet you've even though about how old Blaine here would kick the bucket."

The safety clicked off on the gun, the metallic sound echoing in the auditorium. "I could kill you right now."

Kurt's voice was cold, detatched, and still Blaine could hear the trace amounts of fear lacing his every word.  
>"You could try," Jeremiah agreed, and moved over towards Blaine. Kurt's hands followed his every movement, the gun in his palms warm and heavy. He narrowed his eyes the smallest amount when Jeremiah slung an arm around Blaine's shoulders, and the doctor flinched. "But, you shoot me and I guarantee you my guys will blow a hole through Blaine's skull, here." He rapped two knuckles against Blaine's temple. Blaine turned his head away and clenched his jaw.<p>

"Get _away_from him!" Kurt hissed, dropping one hand from the gun and taking two strides towards the pair of them.

"Whoa there, Hummel," Jeremiah said, and his grip around Blaine went from casually friendly, to suffocating. His forearm pressed against the shorter man's larynx, making air hard to come by.

Kurt froze almost immediately, chest heaving with his terrified breaths and his eyes focused on Blaine completely.

"Ohh," Jeremiah purred into Blaine's ear, eyes still firmly on Kurt. "I think we've found his weakness." He released his captive and stepped away, smoothing his hands down the lapels of his designer suit. "That's always a useful tip for the future." He flicked an imaginary piece of lint off of his shoulder. "One that I will definitely use in the future if you _don't. Back. Off._"

He gave them one last bizarre smile before every single light in the auditorium went dark, plunging them into utter blackness.

Blaine sank to his knees in the safety of the dark, relief vibrating through his bones almost painfully. He only heard the sound of his and Kurt's harsh breathing, and the slight swish of feet moving quickly in another direction. When the lights raised again, he shielded his eyes against the glare.

Kurt was on his knees next to Blaine almost immediately. Shaking, pale fingers gripped and pulled at the bindings of the bomb-vest, until he could pull it off of Blaine and throw it as far away from them as he could manage.

"I don't remember this being in the lease agreement," Blaine said, stupidly, blinking up at his friend.

"What?" Kurt asked. His bright eyes were glossed over with tears and his cheeks were red and blotchy. His hands shook even as they cupped Blaine's jaw.

"Getting kidnapped," Blaine clarified, rubbing a thumb underneath Kurt's eye to brush away a stray tear. "I feel like it happens every week. I don't seem to be a very good assistant. Maybe you should find somebody else."

"You _idiot_," Kurt breathed, and pushed their lips together.


	6. Reality

**Title: **for decisions and revisions (which a minute will reverse)  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Kurt/Blaine  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T (this chapter)**  
><strong>**Disclaimer: **Glee, Kurt, and Blaine all belong to FOX.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Five ways that Kurt and Blaine didn't meet, and the one way they did.  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Through 2 x 16, "Original Song."  
><strong>Notes:<strong> This is the final chapter in this series. Thank you so much to those of you who have read, reviewed, and been so generally lovely to me. It's really meant a lot, and I love you all for it.

* * *

><p>Ever since he was a young boy, Kurt Hummel has known that he was different. It wasn't as though he had super powers, or anything, or purple hair, or webbed fingers, but he wasn't like the other boys his age. He didn't like rolling around in the dirt, didn't enjoy Little League, and definitely didn't enjoy pushing girls or pulling on their pigtails. He was personally more interested in their Barbie dolls and games of 'Pretty Pretty Princess' and braiding their hair as they talked.<p>

He remembered, vaguely, a request to his mother and father on his birthday, asking for a "sensible pair of heels." His father had dropped his face into his hands, cheeks mottled red with surprise, and watched his mother throw her head back and laugh, before his face was smushed against her bosom. He had wondered why they were laughing at him, why they were looking at him with face splitting grins on their faces and tears of mirth in their eyes, and why they hugged him as hard as they did.

His mother died of cancer two months after Kurt's eighth birthday (a birthday spent sitting on his parents' bed next to his thin, frail mom, watching her eyes struggle to stay open even as he tears his presents open and blows out his birthday candles). His father cried, cried for _days_, and Kurt just held him as tightly as his little arms could manage.

When he went back to school, after taking a trip to Columbus to visit his mother's family, somebody called him a faggot for the first time.  
>The words were harsh as they were slung at him, vicious in their intent. It was a burly looking boy in the grade above him that shoved Kurt in the playground, down into the woodchips, and sneered, "My dad said God took your mom away because you're a faggot. He said if she wasn't already dead, she'd be ashamed of you."<p>

Kurt threw his first, and last, punch that day. He was sent home with a bloody nose and a missing tooth (easily replaced, but made him self-conscious about his smile for the longest time) but his dad had hugged him tight, and Kurt hadn't even gotten in trouble.

Burt told him that night that there were always going to be people who wouldn't accept Kurt for who he was, that there would always be blind and stupid hatred in the world. Kurt hadn't understood, at the time, his eight year old mind barely comprehending the reality of the situation.

At sixteen, though, he was all too aware of the indecency of the world. He had the bruises and scars as eternal proof of the idiocy of humanity, of people who judged him for the way that he was made. Sometimes, laid up in his bed late at night, Kurt would wonder what it would be like if being gay was the norm, and straight people were ostracized. If it was considered unnatural to be attracted to members of the opposite sex, would his life be any easier?

He had felt shame, briefly, for wishing that the world were different, and each time the thought crossed his mind, he became more determined to be proud of who he was. Even as he iced his shoulders, favored his bruised ribs, and daubed antiseptic on the cuts that locker vents left on his shoulder blades, he stared at his pale countenance in the mirror and vowed to himself that he wouldn't let the hatred and stupidity of this town force him into hiding.

He was _proud_, damn it, proud of who he was, preference for penises and all. He wasn't about to let a few Neanderthals who frequented the local 7-Eleven scare him away. He was determined.

Until Karofsky. Until basic taunts became more threatening, more quietly dangerous.

And then, God help him, it's Noah Puckerman who changes his life around.

That's a twist he wasn't expecting.

OOOOO

Kurt pursed his lips as he examined himself in the mirror. His outfit was the closest approximation to the Dalton uniform that he could manage, and the sour look on his face wasn't helping the façade at all. He wasn't happy in the slightest about being forced to do this stupid undercover mission, just because they thought that he was the only one that would fit in with the Warblers.

He could still hear Puck's voice in his head, snide and teasing as he called the acapella group _The Garglers_. It hadn't been a dig at Kurt, directly, but the homophobia was still there. And that, more than anything, had been what had driven Kurt out of the room while the others planned their performance.

The first thing he noticed about Dalton was the sheer amount of male that was all around him. Boys…just…a sea of boys, covered in the same clothes, clothes different than his own (damn it, he stuck out like a sore thumb), all milling past him down a spiraling staircase and hurrying down the hall.

They jostled against him, and he tucked his elbows inwards, pulling his sunglasses off of his face and glancing around quickly. A dark haired boy moved past him, and the spicy scent of his cologne drifted into Kurt's nostrils, and before he could help himself, the words fell from his lips. "Excuse me," he said, leaning forward a little and raising his voice to let himself be heard. The boy turned, looked up at Kurt with his mouth falling open, and hazel eyes that had no judgement.

Oh.

"Um. Hi. Can I ask you a question? I'm new here."

The other boy just looked at him, like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing or hearing, and all Kurt could think in that moment was, . _Oh, hell, I'm the worst spy ever. _But then a hand extended towards him, and a smooth sounding voice said, "My name's Blaine."

Their palms slid against each other, fingers locking briefly, and Kurt felt the breath hitch in his chest. He smiles. "Kurt."

The rest of their conversation, brief as it was, remained a blur to Kurt, and it wasn't until he was hand in hand with this newfound acquaintance, rushing down a hallway towards a grand looking room, that he recognized the feeling churning low in his stomach. It was quieter than the crush he'd had on Finn, months ago, but burning more intensely. He watched Blaine sing, his eyes riveted to the shorter boy as he danced stiffly and sang his Katy-Perry-loving heart out, and fell in love.

For a while, he clung to the euphoria that followed developing a new crush, for making a new friend, for having a new confidant. He relished the thrill of having someone _just like him_ to talk to, to text when things got hard, who understood where he was coming from.

He hadn't felt this happy in so long, not since the summer when Azimio and Karofsky were nothing but a pipe dream. Kurt held onto the happiness as long as he could, right up until the minute Karofsky grabbed him on either side of the head, hard, and kissed Kurt.

Kissing Brittany had been strange, in the way that it had been kissing and was therefore pleasant, but it was Brittany and a girl, so it hadn't really done anything for him. Kissing Karofsky reminded Kurt of all the times he'd been shoved into his locker so hard he'd bit his lip, of all the different garbage bins that he had been tossed into. Karofsky's kiss reminded him of fear and everything in the world fighting to keep Kurt silenced.

So, when he moved in for a second kiss, Kurt shoved him away as hard as he could, and raised a hand to his lips. Horror sped through every single vein in his body, and the world blurred around the edges.

Everything seemed so loud, so _wrong_, and Kurt felt like he was drowning.

And then there was Blaine - Blaine, who looked at Kurt with those eyes and who came to Lima just to help him confront his demons, who treated him to lunch when their plains failed completely.

Kurt was in love. Not the infatuation he'd suffered through with Finn, but _love_, real burning love that he thought had only existed in movies and everyone's life but his own. He'd resigned himself to unrequited emotions long ago, and while he thrilled at having genuine feelings for someone who was actually of the same sexual persuasion as himself, he could hardly dare to get his feelings up after the Valentine's Day debacle.

Fucking Jeremiah. That's the way he thought of that stupid day, though he very rarely cursed. Just…_fucking Jeremiah_.

So was it really any wonder that when Blaine came in, while Kurt's just finished crying over the loss of Pavarotti, and sat down next to him and talked of wanting to have an _emotional_ duet, that Kurt just smiled a little and assumed it was just for the competition?

And then…oh, _and then._

Blaine hitched his chair forward, slid his hand over Kurt's, and delivered the most beautiful, stuttering speech that anyone had given to Kurt in his entire lifetime. He was still struggling to believe that this was really happening, to _him_, when Blaine suddenly lifted himself out of the chair and leaned in, capturing Kurt's lips between his own.

It took him a moment or two to realize what the hell was going on, and when he did, he lifted one shaking hand to align with Blaine's jaw. The other boy's mouth fell open at the pressure, and Kurt took the opportunity to slide his tongue into Blaine's mouth. Their tongues slicked against each other, briefly, and then Blaine was sucking on Kurt's lip and it felt so good, and oh, no, why was he pulling away?

His hand fell to the table with a loud thud, and Kurt stared at Blaine in disbelief, watching his full lips quirk into a happy grin. Blaine pressed the back of his hand against his face, muttered something about needing to practice, and Kurt just wanted to kiss him again.

"I thought we were," he said with confidence he didn't know he could have in this situation, and _really? What does that even mean? It didn't even make sense in the context of the situation –_

But then Blaine was reaching for him, and Kurt was rising up to meet him and their lips slanted against one another harder, hotter, wetter than before. They held onto each other desperately, hands sliding against spines and shoulders and mouths open to each other. They didn't stop their kissing until Jeff and Nick stumbled into the room and threw their hands up in front of their faces, startled.  
>Kurt dropped his head against the table and turned his face away from the intruders, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and laughter and arousal. His ankles were locked together loosely behind Blaine's knees, fingers wound through the tightly gelled mass of hair at the nape of his neck. Blaine, for his part, had fixed his mouth to Kurt's neck and his hands underneath the black cardigan, thumbs stroking against the smooth skin of Kurt's ribs.<p>

"Dude," Jeff said, sounding like he was trying his hardest not to laugh. "We have _dorms_ for a_ reason_."

"Seriously," Nick said, moving to the coffee machine as if he walked in on two boys making out every single day. "Get a room."

They separated slowly, scattering plastic gems across the table and onto the floor, and straightened out their clothing. "Sorry," Blaine breathed, doing his best to look composed. The odd bits of hair sticking up at unnatural angles did nothing to help him. Kurt stifled his laughter into the crook of his elbow. "We will. Um. Do that."

Hastily, they gathered their possessions and avoided the gaze of the other two boys, until Kurt glanced up and met Jeff's eye. The blond winked at him, smirking over the lip of his coffee cup, and Kurt flushed and looked away with a happy grin.  
>Blaine's hand clasped firmly around his own and pulled, leading him back down the same hallway they'd come through on the day of Kurt's poor attempt at spying. "Well," Blaine announced, stopping and waiting for Kurt to stand by his side. When neither of them was pulling the other along, but instead standing shoulder to shoulder, as <em>equals<em>, he resumed walking. "That was…embarrassing."

Kurt giggled. Blaine looked at him, eyebrows raised and bright eyes flickering down to Kurt's smiling, kiss-bruised lips. He bumped their  
>shoulders together. "Wanna let me in on the joke?"<p>

Kurt shook his head and let out another laugh, raising teary eyes to the ceiling. "Nothing," he said, shrugging, and his tone was giddy. He licked his lips and dropped his chin down to his left shoulder, looking at Blaine. "I'm just…happy."

Blaine's grin grew impossibly large, and he lifted the back of Kurt's hand to his lips and pressed a soft, wet kiss to the smooth skin of his knuckles. "I'm glad," he said, squeezing their fingers together even tighter. "Me, too, for the record."

Later, as they fell onto Blaine's plush comforter, mouths fused together, Kurt could practically feel the words vibrating around inside his skull.

_Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you forever.  
><em>


End file.
